


is there somewhere

by thisismydesignn



Category: We Are Your Friends (2015)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismydesignn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at what might've been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is there somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is with me and this movie. Wes Bentley's beard has ruined me.
> 
> So many run-on sentences. So many. Apologies.
> 
> Title from Halsey's song of the same name.

They don’t talk about it.  
  
It’s simple enough, the cycle; has been since practically the moment they met. Get fucked up, hook up, shut up. Except that Cole’s finding it harder and harder to make himself forget.  
  
He still doesn’t remember that first night, messed up beyond belief on PCP and too much whiskey and he recalls only colors, colors and James’ tongue in his mouth, scratch of his beard against his skin, not a clue what he was thinking, pretty damn sure he wasn’t.  
  
He’s thought too much since then, and still he doesn’t have a single excuse.  
  
It’s the same every time: James working the room while Cole DJs or knocks back drinks in the corner or maybe both, watching James get a little too handsy with whichever girl seems to mind it least, fingers on her hip as he whispers in her ear, offers her another drink; turns to the bar and catches Cole’s eye, saving his burning gaze for the moment Cole looks back at him because Cole always, _always_ looks back.  
  
Cole might find a girl of his own, or he might not – it doesn’t matter, because it always ends the same.  
  
He tells himself he’s looking out for Sophie, keeping an eye on James when he’s standing just a little too close to another girl, laughing a little too hard at her jokes – _because if he’s kissing me instead, it feels less like cheating?_ – tells himself he doesn’t crave James’ fingers on the nape of his neck, the small of his back when he leaves the girls behind, worked up and restless and already slurring his words when he murmurs, sweeter than the music itself, _“I want you so bad.”_  
  
(Looking out for Sophie, right), as he sinks to his knees in a bathroom stall, an alleyway, works James’ jeans open in the backseat of a car to get a hand around him because he’s so damn desperate for it – James’ approval, his praise and the noises he makes when he comes – that he can’t wait, can’t control himself, doesn’t even want to try.  
  
 _(It’s not just me,_ he thinks, doesn’t quite believe, although—) James couldn’t stop thinking about him either, he knows – knows ’cause James told him, lips against his neck, hand on his cock, whiskey and smoke heavy on the back of his tongue.  
  
Then there are the times James leaves him alone in the studio, following Sophie out of the room with a hungry expression that Cole wants to sate himself. Sometimes they make it upstairs, but the times they don’t – Cole lingers just across the threshold, presses a hand to the front of his jeans as he listens to James fuck her and he wants, he _wants_ them both but when he shuts his eyes it’s blue he sees.  
  
And _then_ there’s the time Sophie’s out of town, and staying in where the only rhythm left is the thrum of their hearts is just as dangerous, maybe worse. He lets ( _lets_ , hands on his shoulders pulling him in close) James press him back into the couch (not the bed, because that would make this real, make it count, and the lines here are blurred and broken and twisted enough but there’s still some Cole won’t cross), drinks forgotten on the table as James strips him down, works him open until Cole is cursing, shaking, fingers tight on James’ wrist as his vision goes white around the edges.  
  
James fucks him that night, goes silent when he comes, breath hitching, fingers leaving bruises on Cole’s hips as he comes down, and there’s something in that silence, in the kiss he presses to Cole’s bare shoulder and the reverent way he breathes out Cole’s name, that says everything they can’t – don’t want to – don’t know how.  
  
He wonders, sometimes, what his friends would think if they knew that he _liked_ this, the burn of James’ beard on his skin, the hard, hungry way he kisses, the weight of his cock in Cole’s hand, the stretch as he pushes in, just this side of too much. (He’s wondered, sometimes, about them – thinks _maybe Squirrel, who knows what Ollie would do for a part, for Paige, and Mason, well, anything with a pulse, right?_ ) But he knows, he _knows_ there’s no way in hell – can picture the look on their faces, the disgusted curl of Mason’s lip and he takes a swig of his drink because _they’ll never know,_ because _it doesn’t matter,_ because _this isn’t who I am_ but James blinks awake the next morning to find Cole still there, half-smiles and Cole thinks, not for the first time, _unless this is exactly who I want to be._  
  
And yet: he sleeps with Sophie, because she’s right, it was inevitable all along, her smooth skin scented hair dark eyes intoxicating in their own way – and it’s comfortable the next morning, grinning at one another across heaping plates of food but it’s not –  
  
– it’s not the excitement, the apprehension in the pit of his stomach the morning he wakes up on James’ floor. Not the thrill he’ll deny at James’ half-smile or even how quickly his expression changes, wincing as the hangover starts to set in. It’s not the heat in his cheeks when James’ knuckles brush against his own as he reaches for the coffee, (the Irish cream); whatever it is he feels for Sophie, it sure as hell isn’t _this_.  
  
He _likes_ that James keeps him on his toes, even if it feels more than a bit like walking on eggshells, like whatever this is could shatter at any given moment. (He does wonder – can’t help himself – what would happen if they _did_ talk about it. Would James deny everything? Claim he couldn’t remember? Would he hit Cole?  
  
Would he kiss him?  
  
It doesn’t matter.  
  
They don’t talk about it.)  
  
It does shatter, and Cole licks blood from his lips on the bathroom floor of a strip club, chest hollow, fingers pressed gingerly to the side of his face. He thinks back to that first night – the parts he remembers – to James offering him a fresh joint, telling him, “It’s not about making it last. It’s about enjoying it.”  
  
He hasn’t learned.  
  
He still wants it to last.  
  
Then Squirrel’s gone, and all Cole can bear to think about is how badly he needs to feel James’ hands on him again. Another fist to the face or fingers tangled possessively in his hair, _it doesn’t matter, take your pick_ , and he’s knocking on James’ door before he can think better of it.  
  
It takes time, returning to normal, or at least something resembling it. There’s no Squirrel, no Ollie, hardly any Mason, but there is James – Cole is still living in the pool house but in name only, spending most nights at James’, passed out on his couch or curled up in a chair in the studio, never willing to stray too far ( _in case inspiration strikes_ , he tells himself, studiously ignoring the voice in his head that whispers _in case James changes his mind_ ). He visits Sophie, eats too much organic bullshit pie and plays her the pieces of his soul that don’t give too much away.  
  
It’s not until SummerFest that James (finally, _finally_ ) touches him again, pulling Cole aside after his set to press him back against the fence where no one can see, kiss him slow and sweet and _sober_ , the taste foreign on Cole’s tongue. He keeps his eyes shut when James pulls back, like he can make it last, like letting himself _look_ won’t be the beginning of the end. But then James’ mouth is at his ear, murmuring, “Now that – _that_ was real,” and Cole isn’t sure if he means the music or the kiss or something in between but when he opens his eyes James is gone, the roar of the crowd echoing somewhere above him as the music starts, vibrating through his chest, beneath his feet, physical and visceral and, yes, _real_.  
  
Real like the glass in James’ hand that night, the way he lets Cole take it from him, set it aside and kiss him hard in the middle of the room, not caring, caring more than words can say. Real like James dragging him upstairs, pushing him down on the bed and pressing his mouth to Cole’s bare skin with a fierce determination that speaks of months of waiting, of him missing this as much as Cole did.  
  
(The bed no longer feels like a betrayal, and when Cole wakes with James’ arm draped across his waist, he rolls closer and shuts his eyes once more.)  
  
They’re both still a mess, tripping over themselves and each other more often than not; all shattered glass and jagged edges but they somehow _fit_ , Cole’s lips on James’ neck, James’ harmonies mixing seamlessly with Cole’s tracks. It won’t last, or maybe it will, but Cole is finally (realizing, accepting, embracing) that for them, _now_ might mean more than _always_.  
  
Cole goes down on James in the studio, records his moans, their soft murmurs; James returns the favor, buries the audio in a track for their next gig and watches as Cole turns red to the tips of his ears. James laughs and laughs, kissing him on the mouth, ghosting his fingers teasingly over the front of Cole’s jeans. He turns the music up, presses a hand to Cole’s chest and thinks _128 beats per minute_ , thinks _oh_ , stops thinking (because that’s what he’s best at, speaking feeling _breathing_ through the music), pulls Cole in and grins, crooked teeth, sparkling eyes. “C’mon, babe. Let’s dance.”


End file.
